


Gryffindor vs Slytherin

by unspeakable3



Series: welcome to the most noble and ancient house of black [91]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), POV Regulus Black, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Quidditch, Regulus Black Feels, Regulus Black-centric, Slytherin Pride, Young Sirius Black
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22152688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unspeakable3/pseuds/unspeakable3
Summary: It was just Regulus's luck that his first Quidditch match would be against Slytherin’s greatest rivals, Gryffindor, and that it would also be held on the occasion of Sirius’s fourteenth birthday.
Relationships: Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black & Slytherin Characters
Series: welcome to the most noble and ancient house of black [91]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1395592
Comments: 7
Kudos: 68
Collections: /r/FanFiction Prompt Challenge #16 / January 2020





	Gryffindor vs Slytherin

Regulus sat very still at the Slytherin bench. His hands were cupped around a goblet of watery pumpkin juice, the ice having long melted, as he stared into the middle-distance. Evan, sat to his left, had given up trying to make conversation before they had even made it down to breakfast and had instead fallen back to his current favourite hobby of teasing Aurora Greengrass into irritation. 

Evan’s teasing, clattering cutlery, benches scraping against the stone floor; all the sounds of hundreds of students sitting down to a weekend breakfast were just background noise to Regulus. He was only vaguely aware of what was happening around him, the sounds deadened as though he were underwater or encased within a bubble. He was too busy trying to will his stomach to calm itself to concentrate on anything else. 

Today marked the first Quidditch match of the year. Normally that would have been a cause for celebration - last year he had scampered down to the pitch just as excitedly as Evan had, both bedecked in green and silver and waving serpent-shaped banners. 

But today was also Regulus’s first Quidditch match playing for Slytherin, and ever since Evan had found his name on the team list that hung in the common room his stomach had been turning somersaults. He was convinced that Emma Vanity, the Slytherin captain, had made a mistake: he was small, fairly quick, and moderately-talented, but there were so many others who were faster and far better at twisting and diving and rolling than he could ever hope to be. 

He had probably only been chosen because he had a better broom than the other hopefuls - the new Comet, a gift from his parents over the summer following an excellent school report. Or perhaps he had only been chosen because of his name, perhaps Professor Slughorn had insisted that it was time another Black made it onto the Quidditch team. Regulus would be the first since Alphard, after all. 

An almighty series of _BANG_ s from the opposite side of the Great Hall startled Regulus out of his consuming thoughts and caused him to drop his goblet, spilling pumpkin juice all over the table. He groaned in dismay and was attempting to mop it up before it dripped onto his new Quidditch uniform when Evan nudged him, hard, with his pointy elbow. 

“I forgot it was your brother’s birthday,” he said. 

Regulus sighed, and wished he could have forgotten that fact as well. It was just his luck that his first Quidditch match would be against Slytherin’s greatest rivals, Gryffindor, _and_ that it would be held on the occasion of Sirius’s fourteenth birthday.

No Gryffindor ever seemed capable of celebrating their birthday with any modicum of dignity. Loud noises, garish fripperies, and suspicious substances accompanied every Gryffindor celebration - and for his brother, the most Gryffindorish Gryffindor to have ever Gryffindored, this seemed to include a trunkful of fireworks and a tone-deaf rendition of some hideous muggle song orchestrated, of course, by bloody Potter and his hangers-on. 

Regulus rose from the bench with a sniff and left the Great Hall with his head held high, determined not to even _glance_ in his brother’s direction, determined that he wouldn’t let Potter’s childish mind games turn his stomach into any more knots than it was already doing by itself. 

The weather was fairly mild for late autumn in Scotland, but Regulus still pulled his robes tighter around himself. He’d never quite grown used to the chill mists that often surrounded Hogwarts in the mornings, the dampness that permeated the air, even after enduring a whole year of them. Perhaps the summers up here were more bearable, but he doubted he would ever be permitted to experience anything but a suffocating summer in London under his mother’s watchful eye.

He stared ahead at the Quidditch stands as he walked down from the castle, the earth soft and damp beneath his feet. They were empty, now, and looked slightly eerie in the lingering fog, their colourful heraldry dulled in the grey morning light. Soon they would be filled with his classmates and professors, perhaps a parent or two (not the Blacks; never the Blacks), and the thought of all those faces watching him, waiting for him to fumble or slip or fall from his broom, spurred him on quicker to the changing rooms. 

Ifor Murton, the broad-shouldered fifth-year chaser, was the only occupant. He was standing in front of the blackboard with his arms crossed, watching intently as Vanity’s animated stratagems played on a loop. Regulus moved to the opposite end of the room and hoped he wouldn’t disturb the older boy. 

Regulus tried not to breathe in too deeply, worried that the changing room’s odour of old boots, stale sweat and broom polish might tip his nauseous feeling into actual vomiting. He reached into his locker, retrieved his servicing kit, and tried to focus on getting his broom into perfect condition instead. 

He sat on the very end of the long bench that ran down the centre of the changing rooms and balanced his broomstick on his lap. There were a few untidy twigs at the tail that needed clipping off, a splinter in the handle that he ought to sand away, some smudges here and there. He worked diligently, keeping his head bowed over the broom as the changing room slowly filled up, and polished the rich oak wood until it gleamed so brightly that he could almost see his reflection in it. 

“Feeling confident, Black?”

Regulus flinched and looked up to find Emma Vanity stood in front of him, hands on her hips and wearing a stern expression. He nodded, though his heart was racing and he wished he could be squashed into the stands with Evan, waiting for some other wretched soul to walk out onto the pitch in his place.

“I hope you didn’t stuff yourself at breakfast. We need you light and fast. Gryffindor’s seeker is even smaller than you are.”

He looked down at his knees and wondered if vomiting would perhaps be a good thing after all. 

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind you how important today is,” Vanity continued. “The first match always sets the pace for the rest of the season. As seeker, you might very well hold the fate of the match in your hands. It’s up to you whether we win or lose, got it?”

There was a loud scuffling behind him; Regulus turned to see Penrose Fawley gripping his fellow beater Walter Crabbe in a headlock, both wearing maniacal grins.

“ _Got it_ , Black?”

He looked back to Vanity, blinking rapidly. “Got it,” he confirmed.

“Good boy.”

To his indignation, she ruffled his hair before clapping her hands together and yelling for the attention of the rest of the team. Fawley and Crabbe stopped wrestling and joined the others to stand in a huddle around Vanity, some leaning on their broomsticks, some stretching. 

Regulus stayed seated on the bench as he re-tied the laces on his boots, made sure his shin pads were firmly secured, and gave his broom one final check. Vanity gave them what Regulus assumed was meant to be an inspiring pep talk, but what sounded to him more like a warning to play well and win, or _else_. 

She pulled him beside her as the team made their final preparations. Her grip on his shoulder was almost as tight as his own grip around his broomstick.

“Ready, Black?”

He nodded, swallowing the tightness in his throat. 

“Then let’s go make those Gryffindors wish they’d been born squibs.”

They walked out to a roar of noise from all sides. Regulus felt particularly small as he lined up beside his older and much taller teammates, surrounded by the towering Quidditch stands. He had to crane his neck up to see the tops of the stands, and they seemed to reach right up to the clouds. He looked back down at the muddy pitch and thought about what a long way he had to fall should he slip from his broom. 

What a birthday surprise _that_ would be for Sirius.

All too soon, Madam Hooch called for them to mount their brooms. Regulus lowered his goggles, flexed his fingers around the soft leather of his gloves, and got into position. His heart was pounding, his stomach churning. Was it too late to call the whole thing off? Could he signal to Vanity, to Hooch, to say that he felt ill, he couldn’t do it, he just— 

It was too late. Hooch blew her whistle and Regulus’s robes billowed around him as his teammates soared into the air around him. He kicked off just behind them, his broom jerking into action. 

He directed his Comet almost vertically into the air and felt his nerves and nausea melting away with each foot he ascended. He was tempted to climb past the tops of the Quidditch stands, higher and higher, past the top of the Astronomy Tower, into the clouds, higher than that even, perhaps to fly high enough to capture a star and bring it back down with him, just to say that he could. 

Flying was the _best_ thing he could imagine. He felt at ease in the air, on his broom, far more than he had ever felt on the ground. He loved the feeling of freedom that came with the cold air against his skin, the breeze ruffling through his hair. There was no one up here to watch him or judge him, or make snide comments on his every action - apart from the crowd. 

Regulus jerked up his broom with a start and hovered in mid-air. He had almost forgotten the game. 

That familiar feeling of anxiety came back with a vengeance as he panicked that he had somehow missed the snitch and lost the game already. He caught a glimpse of the tiny Gryffindor seeker hovering around the goalposts below him (a foolish position if he had ever seen one) and felt his pulse begin to steady again. 

He began making slow circles above the muddy pitch and the stands bedecked with house colours, keeping an eye out for the elusive snitch. He could see the play clearly from here: Murton currently had the quaffle and was heading straight for the Gryffindor goalposts; the rival beaters were fast but Murton was faster and he sent the quaffle soaring through the nearest hoop before they could catch him. 

40-20 to Slytherin.

He gradually tuned out the sound of the commentator and the crowd as he focused on hunting down the snitch. He weaved in and out of the other players (avoiding Potter at all costs) with all the grace that his Uncle Alphard had taught him and that Vanity had admired; he flew high and low, close to the stands and right into the centre of the pitch, never staying still, always on the move. Always watching. 

And then, he saw it. The snitch glittered in a ray of sunlight, as though it were winking at him. 

Regulus flattened his torso against his broomstick and picked up speed as he zoomed across the pitch. The Gryffindor beaters paused mid-swing and changed direction to follow him but Regulus rolled and dipped and avoided their bludgers with ease; his rival seeker was trailing somewhere behind him. With any luck, she would be hit instead. 

The snitch turned sharply and bolted towards the pitch. Regulus followed, hurtling downwards in a corkscrew dive and still picking up speed. The Hufflepuff stand was a blur of yellow and black, the roar of the crowd muffled as he inched along his broom, arm already outstretched and fingers twitching to close around the tiny golden ball.

But the snitch turned again, inches from the ground, and this time flew parallel to the pitch. Regulus growled and his knees skimmed across the wet grass as he pulled out of the dive at the very last moment. He barely slowed as he followed it, barely had time to think because they were fast approaching the goalposts and he didn’t have time to turn, didn’t want to give the snitch the chance to disappear. 

Regulus was right at the end of his broom now. He stretched his hand out as far as he could and could feel the force of the snitch’s wings beating air against his fingertips. He pressed his lips together in determination and leapt forward. 

The ground was soggy and wet, but he didn’t care; he rolled once, twice, before springing to his feet and holding his hand aloft. The snitch struggled to escape the cage of his fingers and the crowd fell silent for just a moment before erupting into applause. Regulus beamed, his cheeks flushed, and tipped his face upwards towards the sky. It was beginning to rain and he was covered in mud but he didn’t care, _he didn’t care_ , because he had done it, he had caught the snitch!

“You absolute _moron_ , Black!” 

He blinked and looked back down. His teammates were beginning to land; Fawley was striding towards him, looking furious. 

“Can’t you fucking count?!”

He whipped around. Bryony Wilkes, Slytherin keeper, shoved his shoulder. Just behind her, he could see the Gryffindor team huddling together, whooping and jumping up and down with their arms around each other’s shoulders, Potter among them. 

Regulus felt utterly, _utterly_ confused. 

“I warned you against putting a bloody _child_ on the team, Vanity!”

He turned to his captain, hoping for some clarity.

“We only had 60 fucking points, Black,” she said, her cold voice sending a shiver up his spine. “You lost us the fucking match.”

He felt dizzy. The snitch beat its wings weakly in his hand. His vision was filled with a sea of green as his teammates crowded him, all shouting and shoving and jabbing their fingers. His squeezed his eyes shut and his ears filled with the thrumming of his heartbeat and his rushed breathing. 

He ought to apologise. _Blacks don’t apologise._ He was an idiot. Why hadn’t he listened to the commentator, or paid more attention to the match? He had been so desperate to catch the snitch, to prove himself during his very first match, had been so consumed by the fear that Sirius and Potter would _gloat_ if he messed up, that he had done the very thing he had been so afraid of doing. 

They ought to throw him off the team. They ought to throw him out of the whole damned house, he didn’t deserve to be in Slytherin. He didn’t deserve to be in the school at all, they might as well give his magic to a muggle and make him live with Filch to scrub floors for the rest of his life, it was all he was good for. 

He was going to be sick. All he wanted was to run back to the dormitories and bury himself under a pile of blankets for a very, very long time. He was going to be sick, right here in the middle of the Quidditch pitch, with the entire school watching. _Blacks don’t make a scene_. 

The entire school - the _entire school_ had seen his stupidity, had seen him jump for the snitch and hold it aloft like some sort of trophy, when all he had done was lose the match for his team. The entire school knew what an embarrassment he was, what a _failure_. He was going to be sick. 

A hand patted his shoulder, gently, and his eyes shot open. He stared blankly for a moment or two, not comprehending how his angry teammates had disappeared to be replaced with his _brother_. Was he hallucinating? 

“I always knew your first match would be eventful,” Sirius said, grinning. 

Regulus blinked at him.

“Hooch yelled at everyone, got ‘em to go back to the changing room,” he said by way of explanation. “Vanity said something about _dealing with you later_. She’s almost as scary as Mother, isn't she?”

Regulus nodded, and looked down at the stupid wet grass. There were mud stains all down the front of his uniform. He must look a pathetic state. 

Sirius shifted, shoved his hands in his pockets. “Good catch, by the way.”

“Stop it,” he mumbled, frowning. 

“Stop what?”

“Don’t gloat. It’s not… it was a stupid mistake.”

“I’m not gloating, Reg. You did well, that dive looked brilliant,” Sirius shrugged. “S’not your fault your chasers are crap.”

“They’re not!” he said indignantly, feeling heat rise up his neck. “They’re _excellent_ chasers, the _best_. It was my fault, I messed up, I was stupid—”

“Hey!” Sirius interrupted him, raising his hands as though Regulus were a wild hippogriff in need of calming. “Calm down, you weren’t stupid. It was your first match, everyone makes mistakes.”

“No they don’t! _I_ don’t! I can’t afford to make mistakes!” he yelled.

Regulus bent down and picked up his muddied broomstick with his free hand, still holding the snitch in his other. He felt the telltale burning behind his eyes but couldn’t bear for his brother to see him cry. He straightened and turned to walk away. 

“Oi,” Sirius said, grabbing Regulus’s arm. “Aren’t you going to wish your favourite brother a happy birthday?”

Regulus wrenched his arm away and shoved the snitch towards Sirius, hitting him in the chest. Sirius caught it, looking alarmed. 

“Here,” he said, chin trembling. “Happy bloody birthday. Enjoy your victory party.”

Regulus stormed off towards the castle, not wanting to shower in the changing rooms and risk facing his teammates again. He went straight down to the dungeons and never felt more thankful for the relatively short journey, never more thankful that he wasn’t ensconced within the high towers of Ravenclaw or _bloody Gryffindor_. 

He saw heads turn towards him as he entered, heard mutterings and barely-concealed sneers, but ignored them and, blessedly, managed to hold himself together until he reached the sanctuary of his dormitory. He let his broomstick fall with a clatter to the floor, ripped off his outer robes and his boots and tossed them onto his bed. He stumbled into the shower still clothed and braced himself against the tiled wall as the hot, steaming water mingled with his tears. 

**Author's Note:**

> I was looking at when the Quidditch matches were held at Hogwarts, and realised that the usual schedule was for Gryffindor to play Slytherin during the first week of November. Sirius's birthday is on November 3rd. In 1973, Regulus began his second year at Hogwarts and perhaps joined the Slytherin Quidditch team - in 1973, November 3rd was on a Saturday. 
> 
> What unfortunate scheduling for Regulus.


End file.
